Authors: Charlotte Stein
I blush at that – though he needn’t think he’s off the hook.
I know he’s still trying to get away from the main topic.
‘That’s really nice of you to say so. But I think we were discussing something else …’
‘Ah, yes. I keep forgetting.’
‘Of course you do. But don’t worry – I’m here to remind you. We were talking about the awful things I imagine you might want.’
‘Oh, they’re awful now?’
‘Terrible. Taboo. Completely forbidden.’
His lips part over his teeth, like a shark sensing dinner.
He’s just too easy. How did he get this easy?
‘Still illegal in parts of the country?’
‘Quite possibly. Certainly, you will probably think so.’
‘So you really think you’re going to shock me.’
‘I’ve succeeded a few times now. It’s not beyond the bounds of reality.’
‘Getting confident, then?’
‘I think that would be an understatement.’
‘It doesn’t pay to be
too
sure of yourself. You never know what might happen.’
‘I know what’s going to happen here.’
‘Oh?’
‘You’re going to try and get out of it.’
‘That bad, then?’
‘It’s bad. But I know you want it. You’ve said as much to me before today, though I don’t think you knew you were doing it. You were just teasing me.’
His gaze goes a little flat after that – in a way that suggests he’s running back through our every conversation, searching and searching for the exact right thing. Was it when he spoke to me about the island? Or did the need to see me strip give him away?
‘It’s going to be something non-sexual again, isn’t it?’ he says, after a second – and is it my imagination or does his voice sound kind of defeated when he does? There’s something in there, at least. Something that reminds me of the feeling I get when stuff goes horribly, horribly wrong.
It’s like a pocket of air dropping down through your body.
‘It might well be.’
‘Something that I no longer do.’
‘Yes, I believe that’s true.’
‘And if I lie and tell you I don’t want to …’
‘You know I’ll know.’
‘I can’t hide from you any more can I
, szeretett
? You have me now,’ he tells me, and I’m so overwhelmed by the sentiment and the sound of his voice and that word – the one he thinks I don’t understand, but always do – that I speak in this big rush of emotion.
‘I hope I do. Because there’s nothing I want more than you,’ I say, sure and certain in the feeling but bracing myself for his reaction anyway. Maybe he’ll turn away from it, or tell me I’m foolish.
But he doesn’t.
He looks at me with eyes so bright and soft, instead. And his voice when he speaks is almost unbearably tender.
‘Then say. Say what it is,’ he urges me, and I can’t help smiling – slow like flowing syrup, and so completely happy.
‘A date, of course. You want a date, with a kiss on my wrist at the door,’ I say, and in response he gives me a thousand ways to say no, and all shot through with laughter. ‘No, nyet, never, non,’ he says, ‘impossible, improbable, I deny it with my last dying breath.’
But he only does it because he knows what I’m going to say.
There’s only one thing I
can
say.
‘Liar.’
He’s much calmer sitting in the limousine than he was in the hotel room – as though he’s rearranged himself into the necessary shape to successfully go on a date. He’s had a few days to let the idea sink in, and now he’s completely on board. He’s dressed to the nines in a suit that probably cost more than my entire life, and he smells so utterly divine I almost maul him right then and there.
But I resist. I
have
to resist.
I’m supposed to be poised and elegant, now – though I know I’m failing badly. I’ve put my hair up and can already feel it coming down. Little tendrils are kissing the back of my neck, which isn’t a good thing on two levels. The first being how shabby I look, and the second is simply the sensation.
It reminds me of his mouth on my skin. It has me humming before we’ve stepped out of the car, and that doesn’t bode well for the rest of the date. I’m not even sure if I’ll make it through dinner, and I think he knows it.
I think he’s leaning on it a little, in fact. As we walk into a building I’ve never seen before – with no sign on the door, just like The Harrington – he slips a hand around my waist. And it’s not a casual hand, either. It’s very insistent, and so tight against my body I could probably make out every whorl on his fingertips if I tried.
And oh, the way the fabric moves beneath his touch …
I shouldn’t have worn this dress. I see that now. It’s far too thin and much too revealing. He barely has to do anything at all to caress me and fondle me and make me go insane, which isn’t the best position to be in while dining at a place like this. The entranceway alone is enough to put me on edge – all gloss and glamour, capped by a maître d’ who fawns over Janos like he’s the second coming.
‘So glad to see you again, Mr Kovacs,’ he says, while giving me a look that could strip paint. I actually see his nose wrinkle, but I can’t let it bother me. I have other things to contend with – like the dining room we’re swept into.
Oh, God, the dining room.
I think the walls are actually made of leather, and everything has this glossy glow that almost hurts the eyes. Even the patrons seem to glitter, to the point where I have to look away. If I see one more person dripping with diamonds I’m liable to lose it. At the very least, I want to take off the silly ring I have on my middle finger – just plain old silver, with a stone that probably came out of a plastic moulding machine.
And my dress … oh, I shouldn’t have worn this dress.
I can see people looking at it already. They’re probably wondering why it doesn’t have any interesting accents – it’s plain black, with a little nip in the middle to give me an hourglass shape. And if they’re not wondering that, they’ve got to be puzzling over the material. It’s not silk or satin. I think you could most kindly call it a jersey-ish material, and I know that fact is showing.
I know I look drab next to Janos – but he doesn’t allow me to linger on that thought for long. It’s just too hard to keep up with those kinds of concerns, when the man you’re with can’t stop touching you. He takes my hand and guides me into my seat, then once we’re sitting down he does something even sweeter.
He touches a finger to the side of my face and brushes away a hair that’s fallen there.
I swear, it’s the tenderest caress I’ve ever been party to – and not just because of the feel of it. There’s something about his intent in touching me that way. Something about the way he looks at me when he does it.
It’s like only I exist, in this room swimming with sophisticated people.
And he wants to make sure I know that, above all other things.
‘What would you like, then?’ he asks, but he keeps that hand on me as he pores over the menu. Now it’s at the back of my neck, stroking and stroking, almost hypnotically. I can hardly pick up my own menu to look – I’m too preoccupied with him and his attentions.
But who could blame me? It isn’t just the solicitousness. It’s the whole of him, from the black of his hair to the cut of his suit. He’s so handsome I can hardly stand it, and in ways I hadn’t really appreciated before. I like the lines around his eyes – so deep below and yet fainter as they fan out – and the firm slant of his jaw. Just below his lower lip is a little groove, faint as a thumbprint.
It’s completely compelling, and I can’t help exploring it with my eyes.
Much to his amusement.
‘Are you enjoying the view?’
‘I wasn’t staring that much.’
‘No? Ah, well, that is a pity.’
‘Why is it a pity?’
‘Because I like the thought of you looking,’ he says, and oh, I don’t know what to feel after that. There’s some embarrassment and a touch of indignation, swiftly followed by the sweetest surge of warmth that spreads and spreads through most of my body. He likes me looking. He revels in my appreciation, just as I revel in his.
It’s wonderful – even if I still feel the need to explain.
‘I can’t seem to help it.’
‘I wouldn’t worry. The feeling’s mutual,’ he says, before doing his best to prove it. He pulls me closer in one firm move, sliding me over the soft red velvet cushions of this booth we’ve commandeered. And when our bodies are almost sandwiched together – knee to knee and hip to hip – he puts an arm around my shoulders.
And that’s not even the good part.
No, the good part is the feel of his hand on my back, spreading out to touch every inch he possibly can. It’s the long slow rub he does, back and forth and back and forth and finally … there’s the way he cups my face. He actually combs his fingers into my hair, and rests his thumb on my jaw.
And then he strokes me there, in such a familiar way it’s almost as though he’s done it a thousand times before. We sit like this all the time, with his hand on my face and his eyes exploring every facet of my features. There’s nothing the least bit unusual about any of it, despite the pounding of my heart and the shaking and this overwhelming certainty –
‘You want to kiss me, don’t you?’ I whisper, and though I don’t intend it to be a game of truth and lies, I can see he takes it that way. He struggles for a second, mouth tightening. Eyes half-amused and half-frustrated – unable to say yes but knowing what no will mean. No will mean he’s a liar, and liars have to pay the price.
Which leaves him stranded between the two, just like I always am.
‘I didn’t appreciate how hard this game was, before,’ he says finally, and I can’t help laughing. Just a little – more of an exhalation than anything else.
But it suits my words so well.
‘You’re damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.’
‘That’s a good way to put it.’
‘So should I just not ask?’
‘You don’t really need to,’ he says, and then after the most excruciating pause of my life he says the rest. Oh, he says so much more. ‘I want to kiss you. I want to so badly I can barely think of anything else. When you enter a room it’s my only thought, and it torments me night and day.’
‘Then don’t let it. I’m right here.’
‘It’s not as easy as you make it sound.’
‘Why not? You’ve held my hand, you’ve taken me out. You’ve stayed with me when I asked you to and now you’re holding me in your arms,’ I say, though I’m sure I’m not making any sense. My words feel all rushed and garbled, and somehow seared around the edges. They’re probably burning him on their way out. ‘I think you’re doing OK with intimacy.’
‘Maybe it isn’t intimacy I lack. Maybe I’ve just grown too used to the way things were, and can hardly remember how to begin something like this.’
‘Well, the hand on my face is an excellent start.’
‘Is that so?’ he says, but he knows it is. Every time he strokes that thumb over the bone, my eyes try to drift closed. My entire body leans in. If he wasn’t so effectively holding me here, I’d simply go for it.
But as it is I have to wait.
Oh, it’s agony to wait.
‘It’s definitely so.’
‘And what about the way I’m holding you?’
‘Oh, there’s nothing better,’ I say, voice so breathless it’s embarrassing.
Or at least, it would be embarrassing, if he wasn’t doing the same right back to me. I can feel his warm breath against my lips, as rapid as a butterfly’s wing. And that heat I was sure I was exuding … it’s rolling right back at me in great waves.
‘We’re not even going to make it through the first course, are we?’ he asks, which is a pretty pragmatic thing to point out. I’d think he was back in the boardroom, doling out tedious questions – if it were not for the way he looks and feels against me. He’s practically biting the air between us.
And I’m biting it back.
‘It’s looking very unlikely,’ I say, and that’s all it takes. That’s the tipping point – just those four innocuous words. I don’t know why they are or what made them so special, but once they’re spoken I just reach out and grasp his shoulder.
I just get great handfuls of his suit, hard enough to pop the seams. I’m probably ruining something worth more than my apartment, but I don’t care. I need to grab him. I need to clutch at him and tear at him and pull him close.
And apparently, he needs to do the same to me. That hand actually clenches in my hair – not hard enough to hurt but certainly hard enough to make me notice. This heated pulse goes through my sex the second he does it, and I know my nipples are stiff beneath this thin material. They must look obscene, but I’m hardly bothered by that either.
All that matters is the way he’s angling my face up to his, thumb and forefinger still on my jaw and my chin. It makes me think of someone taking a drink, only the drink in question is my lips. He wants to taste me there, and oh, that’s exactly what it feels like.
He doesn’t press his mouth to mine, too hard and too frantic. He just dips in, getting a little of me on his lips before going back for something deeper and sweeter. It’s so much sweeter I could cry. I feel like I’ve been waiting for this for a thousand years, and, if his reaction is anything to go by, so has he.
In fact, I think he might have been waiting longer than that. The second he’s gotten a feel for it he pulls me closer, as though he’s never going to let me go now. He wants to kiss me like this for ever, and I have absolutely no objections.
Anyone would want to be kissed like this for ever. His mouth is as soft as butter and, instead of the usual press and slant and part, he just insinuates himself against me. His lips roll over mine, which is enough to make me melt all on its own.
But then there’s the way he
watches
me.
I don’t see it at first. I’m too busy closing my eyes, savouring every inch of this experience. However, after a while I have to look. This strange tension just takes hold of me, building and building until I can’t do anything but.
And when I do, I see him looking, too. I see his eyes trailing all over my face, just like before. Only now it’s ten times more intense. Now he seems to be actively searching for something – a reaction? A sense that I’m enjoying myself?